


Partly Cloudy

by Eternal



Category: Saiko Pasu | Psycho Pass, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:27:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eternal/pseuds/Eternal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Of all the people she happens to meet, this one just happens to have a Crime Coefficient of 603.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Partly Cloudy

The violin was grating again, a violent screech that Holmes tended to make when he was irritated, and alternately, angry. Not that it ever showed up on his Hue check which, like his expression, always floated on the calm, sea blue-green of apathy. It made her nervous, the fact that his intellect seemed to defy Sibyl’s Hue check, that he seemed so far above and beyond the system.

‘Britain has a sister system, it’s called Oracle, and it’s really quite restrictive.’ Holmes inclined his neck towards the right. The Stradivarius grazed his collarbone, again subject to torture that it hadn’t experienced once since its creation so many centuries ago. Then his eyes flicked over and analysed her shoes like they were a particularly annoying fly distracting him. ‘And so stupid.’

She winced.

‘Um, you’re not locked up,’ She said and then checked her words. This time the wince was out of embarrassment and her Hue flushed mauve. He might have been a tried-and-tested high functioning sociopath with the qualities of a latent criminal, but he certainly had nice cheekbones. She internally elbowed herself. He first exceeded the Crime Coefficient at the age of two according to his brother who occupied a minor position in the British government at about the time when Holmes decided to be a pirate, but later settled for the position of the World’s Only Consulting Detective.

Conducting cases via webComm condescendingly from his flat of course, but it might have well been a laboratory with the amount of equipment housed in it. Also, he had apparently established a close friendship with the mortician Molly Hooper, despite never leaving the flat and having never entered her CommField.

It was all there in the File. What there was of it, anyway. She had a feeling that Mycroft had had parts removed, including the exact details of how Holmes had mysteriously managed to infiltrate a terrorist cell in Karachi and rescue a woman with a CC exactly ten points higher than himself. When asked, he only referred to her as the Woman.

She tuned back into the conversation. ‘Oh do please tell me when there is a warrant out to kill me, I’d hate to be blown into a ludicrous quantity of salsa without noticing it.’ Oh dear, she had obviously done it again and touched a nerve, and oh dear god, he was looking at her with a measure of annoyance as he gracefully stalked towards the window and turned his back on her. It was recently installed and its predecessor had exploded inwards only a few months ago when Holmes had operated the Dominator hands-free after reciting the alphabet backwards and activated it with a voice-sensitive protocol he had taught it in private a month ago. (Twice, as it had been inveterately bad student.)

‘Not that I think that you’re capable of it, of course,’ he concluded to the wall, in that annoying voice which meant that he had already calculated her mood from the angle of her spine and facial expression. It was unnervingly precise, this deduction from a man whose CC was 600+.

‘Are you going to tell me whose skull that is?’

‘That is Yorick. Yorick is an old friend.’ he said patiently, shifting uncomfortably and touching the bow to the string of his violin and she knew, even when she couldn’t see his face, that he was wearing the expression he usually reserved for correcting people. Not for the TV though. Never for the TV, it was usually the subject of outbursts as he corrected it out loud. She’d witnessed it several times. ‘Yorick doesn’t appreciate it when people think I murdered him.’

‘Do people think that often?’

He looked at her then, a slightly strange expression with his brows furrowed as if he couldn’t quite puzzle it out. Of course, it was a stupid question. With a CC that high, he couldn’t appear anything but the murderer. His fingers drummed a beat on the sill. ‘Sometimes.’ he said at last and tossed her something silver and shiny in a blur of motion. ‘Keep it.’

She caught it. It was an old fashioned key, flecked with circular spots of rust which formed a patina marring the perfect surface. Of course. The scripture of Sherlock Holmes had declared Ginoza mentally inhibited the minute the Inspector had opened his mouth and promptly refused to speak in his presence. He stated it was out of fear that his idiocy could be contagious, but that statement was definitely a stupid excuse. A stupid excuse made by Sherlock Holmes, a situation so rare that it made her mind marvel.

She was the only suitable candidate for the job. DI Lestrade had sighed and run his hand through his silver-grey hair. It wasn’t the only time, he’d said, the English frequency rapidly modulated into Japanese. They’d had trouble back at home, making Anderson work with Sherlock. The stubborn streak in him meant that it would never work.

She rolled the key in her hand, heart jittering.

’Thanks,’ she said and got up to leave.

‘I’m sorry about your friend Yuki,’ Sherlock said, barely moving. The sympathy caught her on the unawares. She reflexively glanced at the Hue again, with a quiver of hope that always accompanied her, whenever it seemed as if the spectrum would shift to the warmer Hues.

It hadn’t.

She closed the door behind her. When he thought that she was out of earshot, a mournful tune sprang up. But he’d been wrong. The density of the walls varied on the floor, despite Sherlock’s extensive checking. She could still hear the violin music filtering through the old wooden door, a sad melody of low points and soaring notes. He had his own floor, courtesy of the CID and his brother Mycroft’s arrangements.

His Hue. It hadn’t changed. Not ever. Not in several months.

She wondered what had happened to make the man jump off a building and lock his hue in the same clear shade of sea green.

It was then that the naked realisation sprung up. Sherlock had walked outside. ‘Hey, wait!’ She called, running to him. He caught the cab door in one hand and looked at her in barely concealed surprise. ‘Take me with you.’ She gasped, slightly out of breath. Moisture was dripping down from her nose and into her collar.

There was the briefest flash of a smile. She squirmed internally at the silken expression, she was in a car with a potential serial killer, mass murderer and psychopath. Worst of all, she regretted nothing. ‘His name was John Watson.’ His lips curled in a warm memory. ‘My friend. Brilliant chap, he’d never miss the game when it was afoot.’

She stepped into the car like a possessed person. Oh who was she kidding. This was a case with The Detective whose fame defied Criminal Coefficients and the system itself. Even Buckingham palace acknowledged it, sheet incident aside.

The door swung closed.

It was partly cloudy with a chance of murder.


End file.
